Red Star, Grey Ocean
by Curiositatis
Summary: At the end of the first Abyssal war, the Soviet Union was relatively untouched by the savage conflict, being a primarily land-based nation. But as mankind casts the die of fate on the oceans once more, the Red Fleet is pulled inexorably into the vortex, this time with new weapons of their own. Part of the Operation Eclipse series.
1. The New Red Fleet

"_Ostorozhneye... ostorozhneye_..." The man on the platform waved his hands as the winch came down, lowering a scoop filled with scrap metal over an empty cart.

"_Otpusti!_" The scoop opened, and the scrap tumbled down neatly into the cart. Several more labourers approached and pushed the cart down the tracks.

The stranger in the fur-lined coat watched all of this with some interest from the manager's office, peering down at the workers through the thick Venetian blinds. The manager sat at his desk, filling out memoranda and getting through his paperwork. But every now and again he stole a glance at officer that stood in his office. He was a handsome enough fellow, and when he came in earlier that day the supervisor happened to catch a glimpse of the blue uniform that he wore underneath.

What was a Red Fleet officer doing in his office?

As if to answer his silent questions the officer turned away from the window and removed his shaggy coat, hanging it on a nearby coat-hook. He strode over to the chair before the manager's simple wooden desk and sat down, taking out a much-dented cigarette case. He took one and then offered the case to the supervisor.

"_Izvinite. _I don't smoke." The supervisor hardly glanced at the case, and it was quickly withdrawn. The officer lit the gold-tipped cigarette and breathed in deep, exhaling smoke into the air.

"A factory manager who doesn't smoke this far north?" The naval officer chuckled, exhaling another cloud of smoke. "That I don't see often."

The manager put down his pen and straightened his papers, laying them to one side. "My ration goes out to the needier. The men respect that."

"Now that I've never seen!" The young man in blue guffawed, slapping his knee. "So, my kind-hearted comrade, are you ready to hear my plans?"

"As ready as I'll ever be. I'm all ears." The manager leaned forward, giving the officer his undivided attention.

The officer puffed on his cigarette one last time and extinguished it on his beaten case. He cleared his throat and began.

"The Ministry of the Navy currently has an interest in the developments of the other European navies. A new, revolutionary concept is being born out lessons being learnt by them in order to combat the new invaders from the depths." The officer paused, his expression grave. "Thus the Ministry of the Navy has proposed the commencement of a new, top-secret project conducted on the site of this factory."

The manager listened to this, and closed his eyes. "And how will that affect our industrial output?"

The young officer smiled. "It won't. You see, the new concept is rather… unorthodox. The current plans involve the building of a regular, insulated compound around this site. Your workers will continue to work at their current capacity."

"That is a relief. I would not part with these comrades for the world."

"Oh, and why is that?"

"These men are all loyal to me in more than one way. We were all soldiers once. I'm sure you, comrade officer, can understand." The manager's voice weakened, memories flooding back.

The young officer looked at the manager fighting to contain his emotions. He settled back in his chair, content with the old man before him. Then he got up.

"The details of this new development will be sent to you in due course. Of course, you are not to breathe a word of this conversation to anyone outside this room. I'm sure you understand the consequences if such a thing were to happen…"

"Perfectly understood, comrade officer." The young officer made for the door, grabbed his coat, and left.

* * *

The trucks came a week later. Within another month a solid fence with barbed wire had been erected all along the perimeter and the construction workers had finished building the nondescript series of buildings. The old manager watched from his office as the last trucks left and the new guards closed the gate.

There was a knock on the door. "_Voydite!"_ the manager shouted.

In came the very same naval officer, this time dressed in his service uniform of black. They greeted each other politely, and sat down in their respective chairs.

"So, comrade, what are we to do now?" the manager asked.

"Supply trucks will be coming within this week or so. Their contents are still a secret to me. The higher-ups clearly have big plans for this new project." The officer folded his arms, a note of impatience exemplified in his foot tapping relentlessly on the floorboards.

"Indeed? And what are my men to do when this happens?"

"No word from my superiors. It seems the big shots don't seem to mind your steel factory being right at the heart of it all… But then again, saves us the trouble of transporting it, eh?"

The naval officer was true to his word. Exactly seven days later the covered trucks arrived at the compound, and the manager helped his men unload the seemingly-endless crates of material from them. Some had specific contents labelled on them, such as spare truck parts, blankets for the guard's barracks, and so on, but some were painted black with no label on them. These the manager had his men handle carefully, wary of what might happen if the contents of one were to become known.

Inside the compound however, the naval officer watched as the newly-settled scientists and engineers assembled their apparatus. A large steel chamber dominated the room, complete with adjoining furnace and the usual array of piping, wiring and measurement devices. Assistants hurried to and fro as they prepared the first test.

To the young officer, it was all a mystery to him. But as he watched as the final leads were plugged into their intended ports, a flustered assistant hurried into the room, clutching his chest as if he were about to die.

The naval officer hurried over to him. "What's the matter, comrade?"

"The… the big shots… the big shots are coming…" the assistant stammered, fighting for his breath.

"The Admiral is arriving?!" The young officer broke out into a nervous sweat. He whipped around to the curious onlookers. "Everyone, to your stations!" he shouted.

They needed no further encouragement. In almost no time at all the assistants, scientists and engineers stood ready at their posts. The officer smoothed down his jacket, straightened his hat, and stood to attention just in time as the portly Admiral, in all his gold trim and chest groaning under the weight of his medals, walked into the room. He dismissed the stiff salute of the young officer with a careless one of his own, and fairly waddled into the large hall. His entourage followed, a small retinue of his aides and media men.

The Admiral stopped just before the great chamber. With a grunt he showed his approval and instantly one of the more senior scientists hurried over. He whispered into the beefy Admiral's ear, and at those quiet words a huge grin lit up on his pudgy face.

"Comrades!" he announced, as the little scientist hurried back to his post. "I thank you all for your hard efforts towards the completion of this grand facility. Your efforts will be forever remembered in the annals of our great and glorious history."

"It is with your efforts that today, on this auspicious date, the glorious Red Fleet will finally have a weapon to repel those foreign invaders from the depths! Our once great Navy will reign supreme once more in these icy waters!"

Applause broke out among the assembled scientists and engineers, and the corpulent Admiral lapped it all up before continuing. "We will wrest back our destiny with this bold stroke of Socialist labour! Let those scum of the deep tremble before the might of the New Red Fleet! Comrades! Commence the operation!"

A vibrant hum filled the room as all the devices in the room lit up, surging into life. The scientists and engineers bent over their new work and made the last preparations. Assistants shovelled heaps of assorted material into the glowing furnace, the flames of which danced merrily as it licked up the resources.

Meanwhile the Admiral had waddled into the safety of the blast-proof viewing chamber, his media men taking as many pictures as possible. They were followed by the young naval officer, who kept his eyes firmly on the steel chamber.

The most senior engineer accompanied them into the blast-proof room. With a little explanation the Admiral was told of his role in the proceedings. Before the shrapnel-glass window was a little stand with a red button affixed to it. All the Admiral had to do was press the button.

A green signal lit up, and the foremost observers outside the viewing room raised their thumbs in confirmation. Licking his lips, the Admiral pushed the button.

The furnace was shut as steam hissed from the hinges of the great chamber. The high-pitched whine settled into a low hum as the apparatus powered down. Scientists ran to and fro, comparing readings from their many measuring devices.

Then, quite suddenly, the great blast doors of the chamber swung open. A torrent of steam billowed out, obscuring everything. Personnel fell back before the tidal wave of steam, gasping for air.

"_Der'mo_! What is going on?" The Admiral breathed. The cameras of the media team began flashing again. Some of his aides made for the emergency exit.

The younger officer, however, was perfectly calm. He had anticipated this – there was nothing he could do but to shout the next orders into his radio mike over the din of cursing aides and the wailing winter wind that now howled through the open emergency door.

The Admiral and his entourage fled, fearing the worst, but the young officer remained where he was. He watched as the emergency vents pumped air into the chamber, partially diffusing the lingering steam. On cue guards burst into the steam-filled hall, rifles up and at the ready. The young officer entered the hall to direct them.

"_Razlozhite! _Cover the chamber!" he shouted.

The soldiers fanned out, checking on the cowering scientists as they advanced on the open chamber. The officer remained a little way behind, wary of what might emerge. The cavernous interior of the chamber was still engulfed with heavy steam, but it gradually began to clear.

Suddenly, something moved inside the haze. In an instant every rifle was pointed at the source of the sound. The officer stepped forward, holding his breath.

A whirr like smooth gears could be heard. Then-

A loud blast rippled violently through the room. At once, the soldier closest to the chamber was flung back, part of his arm blown off, blood splattering everywhere. Some of the soldiers still on their feet immediately opened fire, pouring on a storm of bullets that would tear through any man easily, but the bullets seemed to just bounce harmlessly off – a cascade of metallic dings that mocked the guards and their efforts.

Another blast rocked the chamber, and the personnel that hadn't immediately run for the open doors bolted, screaming. With blast after blast from the vortex of steam the soldiers were blown away, even the more sensible few that had taken cover. Soon it was all over.

Blood trickled down the walls as the deafened officer groggily rose. He stumbled, trying to catch his breath. His uniform was splattered with the blood of another, and with bleary eyes he surveyed the carnage all around him.

A thick haze hung heavily in the air. He could dimly make out the bodies of the destroyed soldiers, and the unfortunate few scientists who had been caught in the crossfire. He could feel his consciousness ebbing away, but as he sunk back onto the ground he could see a figure advancing through the smoke. It was thin, and looked vaguely like a-

The old manager had heard the blasts and looked curiously at the smoke filtering out of the compound. He saw the big-shot Admiral and his entourage run for their cars, and the guards take up defensive positions all around the centre of the problems. A couple of soldiers had even barged into his office, setting up their rifles in one of his windows. He did not complain. He had done the same himself at their age.

Another loud bang like the roar of cannon sounded from the battle zone. Very soon the soldiers on the ground began firing, tracer rounds flying into the thick smoke like white darts. Sounds of high-pitched dings could be heard, and the old man knew the bullets were bouncing off, like they were bouncing off armour plate.

"_Der'mo!_ Our bullets are doing nothing! What is that thing?" one of the soldiers nearby shouted.

The manager, curious, looked out of the windows again. There, emerging from the smoke, was a girl-

"Arisha?" he whispered, hardly believing his eyes. He blinked furiously, making sure he wasn't dreaming. "Arisha!" he shouted, despite the screams of the Russian soldiers for him to get down as he stood up, waving furiously at the advancing figure. He could see the figure look up, listening to his yells.

The guns thundered again, and he could feel the white heat of the resounding blast tear through his office. Wood chips flew in the air like shrapnel and the old man caught a glimpse of the two soldiers being cut down, while jagged bolts of pain seared through him as the splinters burrowed deep.

He felt himself on the cold snow, a small comfort for the stabbing pains that racked him. He struggled up, and saw the guards being blown away by more explosions as the figure advanced towards the gate.

"Arisha," he whispered, and, feeling a new sense of urgency, stumbled towards the gate, ready to intercept the strange figure.

Slowly, agonizingly, he dragged his bleeding feet towards the gate. He fell down again as the security checkpoint went up in flames, the guards there screaming and falling, their blood staining the pure snow.

With a superhuman effort, he lifted himself up again. He turned, and saw the figure, no, his _daughter_ trudge through the snow, slowly advancing towards him. The old man, remembering with irony his old soldiering days, slowly put his hands in the air.

The figure stopped. She was dressed in a blue officer's jacket with a pleated skirt, both in the livery of the Soviet Navy. There were all sorts of strange machinery attached to her, including little guns at her sides and shoulders. It was hard to believe so diminutive a figure could cause so much destruction.

"Arisha…?" The old man whispered.

The figure was silent. Her face was completely expressionless, but he knew those features well – it was unmistakeably his daughter.

He took a tentative step forward. "Arisha, my dear…" Still the figure did not react.

He moved closer, until they were at arms' length. The old man's eyes welled up at the sight of the daughter he thought he had lost so long ago. Instinctively he wrapped his arms around her, and sobbed with joy. He cried to the heavens for this deliverance, but even then the figure remained mute.

"My daughter! Don't you recognize me? It's your father… " He looked eagerly at the impassive face, desperately searching for a sign of recognition. He did not get that chance as waves of nausea swept over him, and he slumped to the side, unconscious.

* * *

He woke up on clean sheets, to the familiar, musty smell of starched linen. Pain still racked his frail body, but it was more muted than before.

He craned his head to the bedside table, where a grimy glass vase containing purple saxifrage greeted him. He looked to his other side, and to his surprise saw the young officer lying in the next bed. The handsome features had not been harmed, but the officer remained unconscious.

Then he remembered. The memory came rushing back, and he bolted upright, the scene running through his miraculously-clear mind like a film.

"Arisha." He breathed. "Arisha!" He shouted.

"Dear, dear, you're up early…"

The old man looked around. The young officer stretched and opened his eyes. He regarded the manager with curious, bloodshot eyes.

"Who are you shouting for, anyway?" he enquired.

"My daughter! I saw my daughter!" The old man tried frantically to tear off the sheets, and in an instant a squad of nurses bustled up the hallway, and had him back in the sheets immediately. As comforting, but callused hands soothed him back in, he turned and saw the young officer grinning.

"My daughter…" The old man repeated, clutching his sheets. "Was it… all a dream?"

"Well, yes and no." The young officer sat up in his bed, fetching his even more-battered cigarette case from his table. "That was no hallucination."

"But that means…"

"The girl in question is currently in custody in another part of the base. She's resisted everything we could throw at her. The psychologists will be here tomorrow, to look her over."

"Please, you must let me see her. Please, I must know…"

The young officer puffed on his cigarette, letting loose a small cloud of smoke. He seemed to be deep in thought.

"Considering what the guards reported to me yesterday, I think you have a lot to answer for as well. Very well. I shall speak to the chief supervisor when he comes around…"


	2. A Flower in Winter

Some defences (against a certain, possibly irate, reader in the reviews section, and perhaps many more):

\- Russian, as you might have gathered from my main writing language, is not a familiar language to me. In the previous chapter's case, Google Translate was my friend, and that (still high useful) service is the best I can really do.

\- Yes, there was a separate Ministry of the Navy in the 50s, but I am surprised you overlooked the fact that I knew about it at all. And yes, this is an alternate universe – how else could this story have been written against the grain of known history? The Ministry still exists in this universe because of a recognition by the upper echelons of the changed situation. Otherwise the project might never have been needed, and this story might never have been written.

\- It is difficult to have brave old Admirals when the record of the Soviet Navy during WW2 was hardly spectacular, having been relegated to the bottom of the priority list. And when you think about the remoteness and secrecy of the project, it is better not to have any prominent officials involved with it.

\- One does not think logically when someone you loved and believed was dead appears to have returned to life. Even when hit indirectly by a shell.

\- While the spontaneous massacre was admittedly a difficult part to wedge in the chapter, one has to think first about the nature of the prototype itself. Prototypes are the first of anything, and there is always some flaw, or some initial defect. And when the prototype is partly biological, primal instincts also come into play. When one considers the line of guards with rifles that the prototype must have seen first, and the chaotic noise all around it, what would it do with the power it knows it has?

I would have thought that this entry into my series might shed a bit more light (and love) on the neglected Soviet Navy/Red Fleet, as my intention was to involve all major powers including the Soviets, but it appears that some have more regard for correctness than recognition. But that is enough in the defence of my work – here is the second chapter, monstrously delayed, but still, here at last.

* * *

Winter passed. As the snows melted into the frozen grass beneath and the temperature eased to more manageable levels the little cottages and houses that lined the swept coast shed their burdens of snow and their inhabitants, relieved by the thaw, resumed their walks to work.

Only one man did not follow the little bands of gruff old men that walked up the beaten road to the industrial complex. He was a gruff and grizzled man himself, the survivor of two great wars, like many who walked now. He stood in the tiny tiled room he called a kitchen and stoked the logs burning in the range, humming merrily to himself.

A pot of bubbling cabbage sat atop the stove. The old man stirred the pot and the lumps of vegetable slid greasily around. He dipped a grubby spoon in and tasted – bitter, but recognizable. It would have to do.

"Arisha! Breakfast!" he called.

Slow, muffled feet walked into the little front room the old man called his dining room. He turned, and saw his daughter, dressed in a grey wool jumper and knee-length skirt of the same colour. Every part of her seemed to declare her an emissary of grey, from her silky hair to her sombre, dark eyes.

Her name was not Arisha. Arisha is a token name for 'peace', and her origins did not entertain such notions.

But the old man didn't care. With a cheerful smile he greeted her, and ladled some of the cabbage broth into her bowl. Arisha took up her spoon and ate, no muscle on her face betraying any thought of enjoyment, disgust or others. She ate steadily, and even before the old man had finished she laid down her licked spoon, bowl empty.

"This was good. What was it?" she asked in a dull, flat, monotone voice. But to the old man it was a melodious noise, a voice he welcomed whole-heartedly in his house.

"Old family recipe," the old man replied. "Passed down by my grandfather, from his mother. Warming, isn't it?"

"Yes. Quite so."

The old man finished his soup. He stood, and she handed him her bowl. "You go and rest, Arisha," the old man said. "I'll clear this up."

Without another word Arisha turned and headed back into the other room. No matter how emotionless she seemed, the old man appreciated her presence nevertheless.

* * *

Pencil scribbled furiously on yellowing paper as the young psychologist, barely out of the Academy, took notes of the meeting before him. A typewriter would have been more appropriate, but shortages in the cities meant none could be spared for the rural areas.

He sat on a wooden chair against the wall, looking up every now and again at the three others with him inside the cell.

One was dressed in the black officer's uniform of the Red Fleet, the base deputy. He lounged against the wall, a youth barely nearing his thirties, smoking a gold-tipped cigarette from the many in his much-beaten case.

Another, a gruff, old man, sat in the other chair in the room. He wore the worn green woollen jacket and rough trousers of a labourer, but his age said otherwise. He was in fact the base factory manager.

But it was the last 'person' in the room that everyone else focused their attention onto. 'She' sat on the bed, a thin but lithe person, sporting long grey hair and fierce, dark eyes. 'She' wore a grey woollen hooded jumper and an equally grey long skirt. Her name was 'Arisha', but that was just a temporary measure. No-one knew for certain what she was called.

"Arisha," The factory manager pleaded, his eyes shining at the sight of the 'girl'. "Arisha, what are you?"

Arisha remained silent. With a desperate glance at the young naval officer, the manager moved his chair closer.

"Arisha, you know better than to not answer my questions. You are my daughter, and you-"

"I do not now." She spoke in a flat voice, devoid of any emotion. "I do not know who I am."

"Well," the young officer piped up, "in any case we know what you _roughly_ are. From what our technicians observed yesterday, you display similarities in equipment to a Kirov-class cruiser. Is that correct?"

"I would not know," Arisha answered in that same dull tone. "I do not know what a 'Kirov-class cruiser' is. All I know is that I was built for one purpose, and that is a purpose I must be given."

"I see. And what purpose do you believe that we must give you?"

"I would not know."

"Hmmm." The young officer sank into deep thought, while the manager extended his hand to meet with Arisha's. She did not react to his callused touch.

The young officer stubbed his cigarette on his beaten case and ground it out with his foot. He pushed himself off the wall, and sat at the foot of the bed, facing away from Arisha.

"What do you know about the organization known as the Abyssals?"

Upon hearing that last word, the manager and the psychologist stared at the officer, shocked. The Abyssals were a taboo subject, never to be spoken of. If the Security Officers were to catch wind of what he had just said-

Arisha, however, showed no such reaction. She looked blankly ahead, but the old manager knew she was thinking.

"I do not know much about such an organization," she said slowly – but it was a clear break from her usual manner of speech. "Aside from the fact that they are a known enemy to me. Why do you ask?"

It was the first time she had asked a question of her own accord, and the psychologist had to bite his tongue to stop himself from bursting out with his own questions. The factory manager looked confused, wondering how such a forbidden subject could relate to Arisha.

The young officer, however, continued to speak behind her back. "So you confess to knowing about such a force in this world?"

"I know that they must be destroyed. That is all."

"I see. Does this intention have anything to do with your equipment?"

"My equipment is merely a means towards the end. Nothing more."

"Can you explain to us the workings of your equipment?"

"I cannot explain that. My will commands them, and they answer to my will."

"Do you answer to any higher order?"

"I know I must eventually."

* * *

A knock at the door. The old manager looked up from his washing-up and trudged to the front door, wiping his hands with a spotted towel.

The young naval officer was there. But this time, instead of the clean-cut black uniform that he usually wore, the officer had on the gold-braided uniform of someone much more important. The old manager blinked at this. Then he showed him in.

"I've been promoted, comrade," he explained, sitting down at the rough-hewn wooden table and placing his briefcase on the table. "I've been ordered to a naval base near here – commander, no less." His usually-placid face was grinning, like a child with a new toy.

"Good to hear." The manager looked only at the leather briefcase on his table.

"But that promotion comes with other changes too. For instance, your Arisha is to come with me to help establish the new base." The manager, upon hearing those words, rose violently, his beetle-black eyes glinting dangerously at the thought.

"What do you mean, to take her away from me?" he asked, barely suppressing his rage at this blithe young man nonchalantly taking his joy, his revived past, away.

The young officer raised a hand, in an effort to pacify the furious man before him. "Hear me out, comrade. I did not come here just to bring bad news, did I? You know how the system works, comrade? If I had just needed only Arisha, we would have taken her while you were away. You would never have known."

Rage still boiled in the old man's veins, but at those calm words he could dimly see the reasoning behind it. Yes, it was true – Arisha would disappear and he would never see her again. Slowly, painfully, he sat back down, mastering his strong emotion with some effort.

The young officer continued. "That's better, comrade, a much wiser decision. Now," he crossed his legs, suddenly becoming more businesslike. A playful twinkle danced in his eye as he leaned forward.

"How would you like to go with Arisha there?"

The old man sat back, digesting the unexpected opportunity. "How?" he asked quietly.

"We can offer you an immediate enlistment into the Guards detachment being posted there. I can probably get you a position as postmaster." The officer drew out a sheaf of papers from his briefcase, a mass of official-looking stationery all stamped with the seal of the Ministry of the Navy. "All you have to do is sign the paper and you'll be back in the forces. How about that, my kind-hearted comrade?"

The old man did not reach for the pen. "And what about my men in the factory? What becomes of them?"

"We are in the process of offering re-enlistment to them too. Who takes it up, of course, is entirely up to them. It's really the best I can do for you, comrade."

At last, the old man saw no way out of it. The offer was too good. With a steady hand he picked up the pen.

* * *

The promontory was silent that day as a lone figure walked up its slope. She carried a bundle of wildflowers that she herself had picked the previous day.

At last she stopped at a little way from the edge, before the crude markings of a grave. Some unskilled carpenter had erected a dilapidated cross there, with _Andrei Chernavin – 1885- 1951 - Missed by all _in Cyrillic engraved artlessly on.

But she did not care for the refinements of the grave much. Kneeling at the end of the gravesite she laid the flowers squarely in the centre.

A little movement behind her made the lone girl turn quickly around. Striding towards her, in the glamorous black and gold attire of a full Admiral, was the same young naval officer that had faced her first all those years in that terrible chamber.

"Arisha, there you are. I had a feeling you would be here."

"Sir!" Arisha came to attention, her hand swiftly shooting up in a skilful salute.

The officer, now matured and sporting the makings of a gruff beard, responded with a dismissive salute of his own. Arisha relaxed.

"Ah, your father. What do you think of him now? Do you still remember when you first met?" The Admiral asked.

"He was…" For the first time in her artificial existence, she struggled for words. Even though she had 'developed' fully now and was considered a 'normal' girl, Arisha still struggled to come to terms with all the new emotions she had learnt – fear, anger, sadness, and perhaps the most devastating of all, loss.

The Admiral placed a kind hand on her shoulder, but almost retracted it upon seeing a single, clear teardrop fall to the ground. It both fascinated and surprised him to see her so moved by the loss of a man she had hardly knew.

The two of them stood there on the windless cliff, both reflecting on the man that had effectively saved both their lives. Arisha, who had been cared for and loved by this strange old factory manager, fought to contain her tears. The Admiral thought of the first time they had met, with him being the stranger and the old man telling him of his own little sacrifices to help his men – such a pity that kindness was now passed.

"Arisha," the Admiral began. "I must ask you now, if you are ready…"

"Yes, sir?" The young woman before him rose, tears drying quickly on her face.

"I know how much this man meant to you, but now that he is gone and departed from this world, I must call you by your true name now. You may keep the name he has given you, but all I am saying is-"

"The name 'Arisha' means 'peace', sir. I am not sure if such a name fits me anymore." She looked away, down at the grave. "My origin has been anything but."

The Admiral looked at Arisha, and she stared back passively. He could see the determination set in her eyes, and he knew that no matter what he called her, she would forever retain the memory of her 'father'. He cleared his throat.

"Well then, my dear," the Admiral smiled, and touched her on the forehead with a gloved finger. "I think it is time we left this place in peace. Come along, _Kalinin._"


End file.
